


The Third Kind

by withthekeyisking



Series: Dick Rare Pair Challenge [18]
Category: Grayson (Comics)
Genre: (smutty tags to be added next chapter), BAMF Dick Grayson, Dick Grayson Has Issues, Frenemies With Feelings, Frenemies with Benefits, Hypnos (Grayson), Identity Porn, M/M, Minor Violence, Mission Fic, Multi, Threesome - M/M/M, Undercover, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:28:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29389830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthekeyisking/pseuds/withthekeyisking
Summary: Slade was just working a job, he didn't expect to come across a faceless man who is far too familiar and a nameless meta with a trick or two up his sleeve. He can't say he's complaining about the results, though.Dick would just really,reallylike to get his job done.Midnighter has a few other things he'd like to do.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Midnighter, Dick Grayson/Midnighter/Slade Wilson, Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson
Series: Dick Rare Pair Challenge [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1836145
Comments: 25
Kudos: 142
Collections: Dick Grayson Rare Pair Challenge





	The Third Kind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ForeverWhelmed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForeverWhelmed/gifts).



> Happy birthday my friend! Knowing you has been an absolute blast. Almost exactly a year now; I just checked and saw the first time I ~~screamed about~~ commented on [Die a Hero](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22204378/chapters/53013988) was Feb 15th 2020 XD
> 
> Sooooo this is not the story you asked me for 😂 But ADHD brain refused to make any progress on that fic at the moment, so consider this your placeholder gift until inspiration strikes. I hope you like this anyway my dude!! 

Slade notices him the moment he steps into the ballroom.

There's a way the man moves that is just slightly too graceful, just on this side of too controlled. His expensive tux and flashy watch put him right at home amongst the crowds of the overly wealthy, but the way he holds himself singles him out as something completely different.

And then there's the matter of his face.

No one else seems to have noticed, no one sparing a glance for the man past a few appreciative glances that tell Slade whatever they're seeing, it's at least good looking. But it seems Slade's enhanced senses have made their way past whatever the man is doing, because in the place of actual features, all Slade sees on the man's face is a large swirl.

It hurts his eyes at first, like it's not something he should be seeing. Like the tech or the magic or _whatever_ it is is working hard to make those around him see what he wants them to see, and doesn't appreciate that Slade is getting a glimpse past that.

It's impressive, he can acknowledge that. That kind of machinery—and it _does_ feel like technology instead of magic, the longer he pays attention—is high end stuff, _expensive_ stuff. The kind of tech that says whoever this man is, he's not a nobody.

Though really, Slade could've learned that from simply watching the man move.

He watches curiously as the man crosses the ballroom, trying to figure out his goal for being here. It's possible he's another mercenary, here for Slade's target. It's why Slade is dressed up after all; the man he was hired to kill is a well-known recluse, and this event is one of the few times he'd be out of his fancy, highly secured mansion this year. Too good an opportunity to pass up, according to his employer.

It will be irritating if they're both here for the same person. Slade's never liked competing for contracts, preferring to let his reputation do the talking and be the _only_ one hired to get a job done; competition is for newbies, mercs who still have to prove themselves. _Deathstroke_ is far past those days, and can afford to be picky with his jobs. If his employer hired a second assassin for this job—he'll have to make his _displeasure_ known.

After, of course, _he_ completes the job.

The faceless man strikes up a conversation with a young debutant, and from her smile and the way she bats her eyelashes he can only assume they're flirting. Slade finds, that when he attempts to unfocus his gaze and mind, that he can see the impression of an actual face, what the others must all be seeing. Brown hair, green eyes, sharp jaw. Handsome for sure, but in a regular sort of way.

It's well done; handsome enough that a good smile and clever line will have people fawning, but normal enough to be forgotten if only seen in passing. A good disguise, one more check mark in the box for _experienced._

The man takes the debutant out onto the floor, spinning her around in quick, practiced movements and making her laugh, looking charmed. But the man's focus is not on her at all, no no, his gaze is slightly too far to the left to be all about the woman in his arms.

Slade follows his gaze and finds the man watching a crowd of men on the side of the ballroom, the old, _old_ money sorts that would politely be called good ol' boys. They're all holding glasses of neat drinks and chuckling at each other's (surely distasteful) jokes, patting each other on the back like they're the greatest people in the world.

None of them are Slade's target, Jacob Myerson, so he dismisses the initial thought that the faceless man is here for the same purpose. Just an odd coincidence that two jobs are taking place at the same time, and really not Slade's problem.

He turns his attention away from the other mercenary for the moment, instead glancing back to where Myerson is. The man is dancing with his wife, a woman at least two decades younger than himself and with far more of a social life than her reclusive husband. He doubts there's much actual love there, and he's sure that the large inheritance she'll receive after his death will make up for any grief she might feel.

The song ends, and with it all the dancing, and Myerson excuses himself from his wife to go grab a drink from the bar as she gets pulled into conversation with some other woman draped in jewels. Slade tracks his progress across the room, watching carefully as he flags down the bartender and orders another of his usual. Same drink every time.

Predictability makes for such easy targets.

Slade's already drugged the bottle, something that'll kick in within half an hour of drinking it. Will look like a heart attack. A shame, but simply an act of God. Nothing that could've been prevented.

Normally, Slade would be long gone by this point. For subtle assassinations like this one, where his clients want it to look like an accident, there's no real need for him to stay and watch. But his client was twitchy and wanted confirmation all the way through, which means a boring evening for Slade watching the crowds of rich folks enjoy yet another night of frivolous wealth. Not actually an awful way to spend an evening, he supposes, considering how much he's getting paid for this job, but still a bore. There are certainly things he'd rather be doing.

Myerson gets his drink and begins sipping from it, glancing casually around the room before making his way over to some other man who smiles at his approach, quickly moving into an animated discussion.

From here it really is just a waiting game, nothing to do but stand and count the minutes, so Slade lets himself turn part of his attention away from his target for the moment, seeking out the faceless man once again.

The man is no longer dancing with the debutant, but instead talking with one of the men from the group he'd been watching before. The way they stand together is relaxed, companionable. The older man throws an arm around the mercenary's shoulders with a broad grin, and then begins to steer him towards a side door off the ballroom. Slade sees the merc's hand dip skillfully into the man's pocket, only seeing a flash of the card he lifts before it vanishes up the merc's sleeve.

Very smooth, well done.

It's disappointing that they're leaving the ballroom; Slade was definitely curious about what was going on, what the faceless man's job is now that he knows it has nothing to do with his own.

It's not even ten minutes later, however, that the faceless man returns. Sans good ol' boy.

Slade watches, eyebrows raised, as the man makes his way confidently across the room, slipping between crowds and dancing couples with that same effortless grace he had before. He shares words with a couple people who stop him along the way, but is definitely making his way towards the exit, and in something of a hurry. Slade's curiosity grows.

He glances at Myerson, checking his status. The man is still talking to the guy from before, and there are almost unnoticeable beads of sweat beginning to dot his hairline. He's not too much longer for this world, but by the time he drops, the faceless man will be gone. And this is probably the most interesting thing to happen in a while.

Mind made up, Slade begins to follow, dismissing Myerson for now. He'll check in again later, not that there's really any point. The man will be dead, and that will be that. For now he has more interesting matters at hand.

He slips out of the ballroom on silent feet, stalking down the hallway after the faceless man the same way. He keeps his distance, practiced at tracking, and follows the man outside. The frigid wind is a shock to the system, but he braces against it and keeps going, following curiously as the man turns away from the parking lot and main road, turning instead down a side alley beside the large mansion, sliding between the wall of the mansion and a thick wall of hedges.

It's a far more cramped path for Slade, and he moves carefully so as to not shake the branches too much and give away his position. When he reaches the end he pauses, peering around the end of the wall and into the large backyard gardens.

He sees the man he's been following immediately, walking further down into the garden. Following from here will put Slade far more out in the open, but he's barely had five seconds to consider his path from here before there's a pair of hands grabbing the front of his tux jacket and yanking him out of his hiding spot.

It is very, _very_ rare that someone manages to sneak up on him, and that second of advantage is enough for whoever it is to deliver a solid punch right to his nose, snapping his head back, slightly inhuman strength behind the hit.

Slade brings a fist down against one of the hands still holding tightly onto his tux jacket, and the hand spasms and loosens enough to Slade to jerk out of it. But simultaneously his attacker's other hand uses its grip to jerk Slade to the side, tossing him to the ground.

Slade rolls with it automatically, instantly spinning to his feet, some distance between them now. He has enough time to notice a cowl and a long leather duster before he's being attacked again, the man coming at him full force.

It's...a challenge. Everything Slade does, every strike he tries to dole out, is countered automatically and with a vengeance. It's like his attacker knows what he's going to do before he even does it, and that feeling only grows the longer the fight goes on. Slade is holding his own, but only just barely, and isn't _that_ an unfamiliar concept. He's had some hard fights over the years, but it has been a long, _long_ time since he felt... _outclassed._

"M, stand down!" a voice calls out sharply, but Slade doesn't react to it and his attacker—M?—doesn't even pause, continuing his assault with deadly precision.

 _"Midnighter!"_ the voice shouts again, and this time his attacker lets out a short growl and, with a move Slade barely sees coming, punches Slade in the solar plexus and then kicks him in the side, the combination sending Slade to the ground.

He's not down long, but it's enough. Enough for this 'Midnighter' to go for a killing blow if he'd wanted to. Given, it wouldn't be a killing blow for _long_ with Slade's healing, but the fact that it's that close at all rankles at Slade.

Midnighter offers him a sharp, slightly feral grin as Slade gets back to his feet, but makes no moves to attack again. He also has the hubris to look away from Slade completely, head turning in the direction of the voice with raised eyebrows.

"What?" the man returns with an edge of exasperation, and Slade follows his gaze, seeing that it's the faceless man. "I'm taking care of your _tail._ This is where you say _thank you."_

The faceless man doesn't acknowledge that statement, and the way he tilts his head gives the impression that he's looking at Slade now. He's dropped the disguise he was using earlier, so even when Slade unfocuses his eyes, he can't see anything except the swirl.

"Deathstroke," he greets, sounding far lighter than people usually do when they recognize Slade. "There a reason you were following me?"

Slade's interest has only grown at having been recognized. If you have the right connections it's not hard, per say, to find a picture of his face, but it's still not common. Most simply know the mask, it's why he can often get away with not having to use any disguises himself past popping in a fake eye from time to time.

"Not every day I see a man with no face," Slade drawls, going for uncaring. "Consider me curious about you." His eyes flick to Midnighter. "Thanks for calling off your dog."

Midnighter smirks at him, seemingly unbothered by the comment. He hears something like a chuckle from the faceless man.

"You never change, do you?" he asks, pure amusement in every syllable, and Slade narrows his eye. That's...familiarity. He hates that he can't see the man's face, especially with the hints that they've met before; Slade hates being at such a disadvantage. Throwing in the attacker who could beat him, and none of this situation is shaping up the way he'd like it to.

"If you expect me to recognize you in turn, you're going to have to do better than that."

The faceless man hums. He takes a few steps closer, hands sliding into the pockets of his slacks. "Probably not the best idea," he says. "I have this tech for a reason; identity is supposed to be secret, and all."

"Why am I not surprised you actually know Deathstroke?" Midnighter says with a snort, folding his arms loosely across his chest. "You have a _type,_ that's for sure. It's almost diagnosable."

Slade gets the impression of an eye roll, but the faceless man doesn't actually seem bothered. His mind races, trying to figure out who this man is. It's right there on the edge of his awareness, niggling at him. The way the man moved, the skill, the familiar way he talks to Slade, the comment about a type that Slade would fit...

But—no. No way. Grayson's _dead,_ pretty publicly. Life exploded along with it, identity revealed to the world. There's no way this is the kid.

Though...in their line of business, is it really out of the question that maybe Grayson came back, or never actually died at all? Stranger things have happened, and the kid's always been slippery. If anyone could find a way out of the shitstorm that was the Crime Syndicate, it would be him.

Taking the chance, Slade cocks an eyebrow and asks, "Aren't you supposed to be dead?"

The faceless man goes still, and the sighs. With a wave of his hand, the swirl fades into nothingness, and suddenly it's Dick Grayson's familiar face staring back at him.

"Hey, Slade," Grayson greets with a tired but still somewhat warm smile. He scratches the back of his neck almost sheepishly. "Uh, surprise?"

It had been a damn shame to learn the kid was dead. He'd been good company, and a worthy opponent, not to mention someone Slade could actually tolerate spending time around. The fact that he's alive isn't _actually_ all that surprising, with all that's possible, but it is...something of a relief. Good to know he hasn't been taken out of the game just yet.

Though, considering that tech he has going on, and the fact that the rest of the world still believes him to be dead, he's clearly playing in an entirely new game than before.

"What are you doing here, kid?" Slade asks. "Not exactly _you,_ is it?"

Grayson's face twists like he tasted something sour. Sore spot, apparently. "Yeah, well, we do what we must." He glances at Midnighter. "We...should get going."

The meta—because he _has_ to be a metahuman, after what he displayed in that fight—nods without complaint and calls out, "Door."

Suddenly, a golden doorway appears out of nothing, showing what looks like a hotel room. Different time zone, going by the way sunlight is streaming in through the windows of the place.

"Grayson," Slade says as the kid steps towards the portal.

Grayson offers him a smile, calling, "It was good to see you, Slade," before he and his companion step through, the portal vanishing behind them.

* * *

Running into Slade was absolutely not what Dick expected from his day, or week, or month, or _ever._ His work with Spyral has been so...isolated. Other than Helena and his occasional conversations with Bruce, Dick's not spoken to anyone from his old life, nor seen a single hair of them. The life he's living now is a very different one, and he runs in very different circles.

He supposes that Slade runs in these circles too, from time to time. As a mercenary he does all sorts of jobs, many of which have nothing to do with the superhero community. It's really not all that strange that they wound up bumping into each other.

But it's still a shock to the system. He hasn't seen Slade in almost a year, the last time being a few months before what happened with the Crime Syndicate and his subsequent 'death'. Running into him while on a mission for _Spyral_ and with Midnighter at his side definitely hadn't been how he predicted a possible reunion going.

He'd pictured...well, something hot and heavy once he'd been allowed to return home, really. What he and Slade had was never anything serious, but it was _good._ It was an escape when the world got to be just a bit too much. He never had to worry about Slade judging him for anything, or pressing him for more than he could give. He could just...exist, with him. Their dalliances provided a level of comfort that Dick appreciates probably more than Slade knows.

Midnighter gives him a similar feeling. It's a little different, M having far more jagged edges than Slade ever did, but he carries that same acceptance and lack of judgement, gives Dick the space to just exist without having to worry about the crushing responsibilities that rest on his shoulders.

There's no time to catch up, though. Nor does Dick know exactly what he would say. He doubts Slade would press him for an explanation, probably wouldn't care at all about an apology for making him think he was dead, but Dick still...feels like such a different person than he was before. What happened with the Crime Syndicate and Bruce and now this job—it's changed parts of himself. And he doesn't yet know how that would translate to his interactions with people from before.

Though if there's anyone who would be a good test run, it would be Slade. He wouldn't judge Dick for any differences. He'd notice them, maybe even comment, but that would be that. It wouldn't be a big deal.

Still, he runs. They have a job to do, and Slade's presence can't actually distract from that.

He's not surprised that M presses a little, though. The man loves to tease, and he has all new fodder after whatever he surely picked up from that interaction.

He at least waits until much later, after they've completed the mission and are back in their hotel room for some much needed rest. He even waits until after they've gone a round, though Dick thinks that has far less to do with patience or respect and far more to do with not wanting to miss out on having Dick's mouth around his cock.

"So," M says with a certain amount of relish when they're both lying in bed, coming down. Dick is splayed across his chest, M humoring Dick's need for closeness after sex, and Dick braces for what is sure to come. _"Deathstroke,_ hm?"

Dick groans. He knew it was coming, but still there had been a small, _small_ glimmer of hope that maybe M would let this one slide.

"Any chance of you not asking about this?"

M snorts, bouncing Dick where he rests. "Not a one, Grayson. So you really do have a type, huh? There more like me and him out there?"

Dick likes strength, and competence, and people who like the same. He often finds himself drawn to metas or aliens with abilities, drawn to all the amazing things they are. And when those things come with a side of understanding, then he can never resist. Kory is a strong example of that; he'll always love her, he thinks. She was beautiful and powerful and kind and intelligent and always just _understood_ in a way that let Dick breathe around her.

So, no, there aren't _many_ like M and Slade, but there are some. And Dick often finds himself drawn into their orbit.

"Slade never talked this much after sex," Dick grumbles.

M makes an amused noise, and his hand brushes briefly over Dick's hair, making Dick's eyelids flutter. "You like it when I talk."

He does. He likes the connection of it, even if Dick is usually too tired afterwards to provide much conversation. It's often just M talking _at_ him, but that's still really good. Same with being able to be pressed close like this, soaking in the meta's body heat, cherishing the easy physical contact. Most of the contact he has these days is through violence; he appreciates M letting him have this after they're done.

It's that acknowledgment that has Dick sighing, offering up an explanation. "Slade and I slept together on and off for a couple years. It was...a lot like this, actually."

M doesn't ask what he means by that, just makes an acknowledging sound, fingers trailing softly up and down Dick's spine.

Sometimes, Dick thinks M craves this closeness, too. M has even less positive physical contact than Dick does, and these days that's saying something. Everyone needs someone from time to time, and after whatever happened between Midnighter and his ex Apollo, Dick doesn't think M has a lot of good connections in the world. He has to admit to being honored that M would let him be that for him, even if the meta will probably never admit it.

"Get some rest, Grayson," M says, settling into the bed and making no moves to remove Dick from his person. "More work to be done tomorrow."

* * *

It's almost two months to the day the next time Dick sees Slade again.

Dick's undercover again, the Hypnos technology making him look mid-forties with blonde hair and brown eyes, but still the mercenary takes note of him almost immediately.

Slade's dressed as Deathstroke this time, standing perched against the wall like a sentinel, his position perfect to watch the entire room. He has his mask on, so Dick can't see his face, but he sees the slight flicker of his eye, the minute tilt of his head, telling Dick that he's been noticed. Dick has no idea how Slade can see through the Hypnos, but as long as he doesn't blow his cover then he supposed it doesn't really matter.

Tonight, Dick is undercover as Alexi Yahontov, a prospective buyer. The entire event tonight is a who's who of underworld scum, drug traffickers and sex slavers and weapons dealers that make Dick want to vomit every time one of them touches him like a peer. The organizer is Micah Romano, and Spyral's current target. His whole organization, really. They have most of the pieces in place to take it all down, and the last part of the plan starts tonight, with Dick here for this.

He has no idea if Slade is here as security hired by Romano—but he sure hopes not, because he thought Slade was better than human trafficking—or as a bodyguard for one of the other shit-stains in attendance, but he can't think about it right now. He has a job to do; he can worry about Slade's involvement later.

Dick's done countless jobs like this in the past—both as a hero and a few times for Spyral—so he's old hat at blending in, melding himself to the expectations of the crowd, mimicking their mannerisms and thought processes with ease until they all think he's one of them without question.

He has to admit that the Hypnos is a _big_ help. Wearing disguises always comes with some level of risk; a wig getting knocked astray, a facial prosthetic getting damaged, makeup running. With this tech he doesn't have to worry about any of that. And while Bruce's voice is shouting in his head about the dangers of overreliance, he can't help but let himself rely on it nonetheless.

It's not like he has all that many options, really. He didn't have a choice about having the implant put in, and so now he's going to use what he has at his disposal. He's a _team player_ now, after all. And loyal Spyral agents use Spyral tech.

Romano greets him warmly despite the fact that they've never met before, Dick's fake bank account and fake references speaking for him long before he walked through the door. Dick returns the warmth, complimenting his operations, expressing eagerness for a future partnership. Romano eats it all up, as expected, and tells Dick to enjoy himself before the demonstration begins.

So Dick does just that. Or, at least pretends to. He gets himself a drink and strikes up conversations with men he'd rather beat to a pulp than converse with, and he does it with a relaxed, companionable smile and easy words.

He can feel Slade watching him from time to time, a feeling he's been used to since he was a teenager. Even though Slade is currently here for one of these criminals and not as Dick's backup, it's still nice to have him present. Even if they end up fighting, he knows Slade won't let any _permanent_ solutions be done to him. Pain, sure. A whole lot of it, in fact. But Slade won't let anyone kill him. It's a good safety net to have.

Maybe that's all wishful thinking, but he doesn't think so. He _knows_ Slade. Maybe he can't trust him with everything, but he can trust him to care enough to not stand by and watch him be killed.

Not that Dick plans on letting any of this get that far, of course. Best case scenario involves no fighting at all tonight, involves him slipping away completely unnoticed. He simply knows better than to put all his eggs in the _best case scenario_ basket.

Eventually, Romano gets all of their attention, beginning his 'demonstration'. Weapons are first, and Dick watches with an uneasy stomach as high-powered weapons—some with what seem like alien tech—are shown off and auctioned.

That is, of course, when everything goes to shit. Because Dick can't have nice things.

He's examining one of the alien-looking rifles, pretending to be interested in buying it. But when he puts his hand on it, pain begins to radiate from his skull, violent and sudden enough that it makes a scream escape him before he can strangle it down.

They're on him instantly. His head is still spinning, his body like jelly as it sluggishly tries to follow his command to fight. He still has no idea what the fuck just happened, but by the time the pain has faded enough that he can see without blurry vision and his head is no longer spinning like on a tilt-a-whirl, they have him on his knees, wrists handcuffed behind his back, two meaty hands holding him in place by his shoulders.

He can slip handcuffs, but he really feels like the cuffs are the least of his problems at the moment.

Romano crouches in front of him, all joviality from before gone. He reaches out, ignoring the way Dick jerks back, and swipes his thumb roughly over Dick's cheek before drawing back and looking at his hand thoughtfully.

There's blood on his thumb, and now that Dick sees it, he can _feel_ it, twin streaks going down his cheeks from his eyes.

Well, shit. If his Hypnos shorted out...

This really isn't great.

"Who are you?" Romano asks coldly. "Who _sent_ you?"

Dick offers a charming grin. "Que? No hablo ingles."

Romano doesn't look impressed with that answer; everyone's a critic these days. His eyes flick up to whatever meathead is currently holding Dick in place—something Dick is actually thankful for, considering he doesn't trust his ability to not just faceplant right now—and he jerks his chin, propelling Meathead to tighten his grip and haul Dick up to his feet.

Dick stumbles as he's shoved forward, the world once again spinning around him. He fights back the nausea that threatens to make itself known, head throbbing painfully in time with his pulse.

As he's shoved through the crowd, he gets a brief glimpse of Slade. The man hasn't moved from his spot against the wall, looking completely unaffected by what's going on, arms folded over his chest. Dick doesn't let his gaze linger; no use in making it look like they're aligned, if someone were to notice the glance.

He's marched to a stereotypical basement cell, which while familiar really isn't the best. Gets even worse when he's shoved back to his knees and chained to the floor. They do, however, leave him alone, Meathead growling that Romano will be down to 'speak' with him after the auction is complete.

Pulling his lockpick out of his shoe is a little bit cumbersome with the way he's bound, but he manages, pulling it free and then making quick work of first the manacles for the chains and then the handcuffs.

Getting to his feet induces more dizziness, and he stays still as he waits for it to fade, breathing deeply to fight past the once again rising nausea. He then makes his way to the cell door and picks the lock on that, too, slipping out silently, straining his ears for any signs of anyone nearby and finding only the muffled noises from back upstairs as the event resumes.

He makes his way up the stairs carefully, choosing to go slower than he'd normally like in order to make sure he doesn't hit any large creaky spots on these older wooden steps.

When he reaches the top, he pauses again, peering carefully around the corner. There's a pair of guards in the direction Dick wants to go, away from the event room and towards the doors that will let him escape. Two men is nothing, really, when compared to his skill, but he's still feeling rather unsteady on his feet, head swimming. A win is likely, but not completely guaranteed.

Not that he has another choice.

Dick stalks forward carefully, keeping himself concealed for as long as he can before it's simply not possible anymore. The guards look to him in alarm, an Dick engages the first before either of them can raise their weapons, landing a punch across his jaw. He goes down with only a few hits, and while it leaves Dick feeling dizzy he's still standing, whirling around quickly to face the second guard—

Only to find the man already pointing his gun at him, aimed steadily at Dick's head. He's far enough away that Dick can't knock the weapon aside, and he pauses, trying to plan his next move.

"Hand up," the guard barks, "or I'll shoot."

Dick does as he's told slowly, eyes flicking over the guard, looking for a weakness. He's leaning slightly to the left, Dick could—

_Thwip._

Dick jerks back, sucking in a sharp breath, when the guard crumples to the ground, blood spraying from a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead. He jerks his head to the side and sees Slade standing there, lowering his silenced pistol back to its holster on his thigh.

"What the _fuck,_ Slade?" Dick hisses.

Slade strides forward before coming to a stop in front of him, head cocked. He reaches out, and when his thumb brushes over Dick's cheek, it's with far more gentleness than Romano exhibited. Dick finds himself leaning into the touch without hesitation. Despite the way his stomach squirms at the death, he can't help but admit that he's extremely relieved Slade showed up.

"Come on, kid," Slade says, hand dropping. He turns for the door and begins to talk away. "Time to go."

Dick follows.

**Author's Note:**

> This, as per fucking usual, ended up getting bigger than it was supposed to 😆 So there will be a chapter 2 and 3! Plot and porn and feelings to come XD Because I have zero chill lol.
> 
> I hope y'all enjoyed, and everyone go check out Jodie's masterpiece [Die a Hero](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22204378/chapters/53013988)!


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